


How Dragons Are Slain

by codenamecynic



Series: It came from the tumblr-verse [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stories about heroes always start one of two ways – with a bucket helm, or a burning farm.  Add a dash of villainy, a pinch of violence, a bevy of distressed damsels and a plucky sidekick or two, and that, messeres, is how dragons are slain.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Dragons Are Slain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delazeur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delazeur/gifts).



> Written for the one and only tumblr heroine Delazeur in response to the word prompt "Sphallolalia - Flirtatious talk that leads no where. Varric + Hawke". Special thanks to Hallianna for being my One True Beta.

The sound of Hawke laughing makes him hurt.

Now, now, wait.  That isn’t the way a good story begins – and certainly not a story about a champion.   _The_ Champion.

Stories about heroes always start one of two ways – with a bucket helm, or a burning farm.  Add a dash of villainy, a pinch of violence, a bevy of distressed damsels and a plucky sidekick or two, and that, messeres, is how dragons are slain.

It makes for a good serial drama anyway, and there can’t be drama without a little romance, the same way the hero can’t find her one true love without a little bit of suffering.

It’s one thing, though, to pit her against odds on a page that he can control; to paint her with reckless bravery and bad puns, to hold her image up to see where the light pools, where it leaks through the cracks time and hardship make.

It’s quite another to watch her sink bit by bit, every wounded piece of her like a stone skipped across a pond, struggling for flight and inevitably pulled under.

The water is calm, except when it’s not.  Right now it trembles like wine in a glass that’s been set down too quickly.  Like the edges of a rope begun to fray, the drunker she is the more she comes apart until she is loose and wild, steam under a kettle’s lid making a mad dash for freedom before the whole thing boils over.

He isn’t exactly surprised when she bends into his room, all languid limbs and swaying steps and grins that are almost but not quite grimaces, giggling that will too soon turn to grief.  He knows enough about plot twists and dramatic tension to expect it.

“There you are, my handsome dwarf.”

“Keeping Corff in coin, I see.”

Her shoulders rise and fall with feigned innocence that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.  “There’s a fair chance we were drinking on your tab.”

Varric sighs gustily.  “The things I do for the affections of beautiful women.”

“It’s the chest hair, it’s practically a welcome mat.”

“Hey now, my eyes are up here, Hawke.”

“More’s the pity.”  That makes no sense whatsoever and she knows it, bracing both hands on the table and leering comically, waggling brows as uncoordinated as the rest of her.

He spreads his hands, leans back in his chair.  It’s not as if he’s not proud of it, anyway.  

“Careful Hawke, you’ll make Bianca jealous.”

“Oh, I’m sure I could distract her, give that hand crank a good pump or two.”

“Then I’d be jealous.”

“The intricacies of my brilliant plan,” she congratulates herself, already stretched out face down diagonally across his bed.

“Don’t fall asleep now. Sleepiness is weakness of character, ask anyone.”

All he gets out of her is a mumble of words against the bedspread, arms flung out every which way.  He can’t help but chuckle to himself, just a tiny bit, at the way she resembles a mabari pup played out, flopping down wherever she happens to find herself.  It’s an image that belongs to a more innocent time, and he waits until her breathing deepens and evens and she doesn’t stir when he sets his hand in the middle of her back to feel it rise and fall, warm under his hand.  Only then does he unlace her boots and set them by the nightstand, untucks the comforter and folds it awkwardly over her, half from one direction and half from the other, before he makes himself step away.

He knows perfectly well what part he’s written for himself in this tale, more invested in this storyline than in most.  He can’t write her whole again any more than one can grow a garden from rocks planted in the ground.  It’s all about pacing.

Sometimes Hawke laughing makes him hurt, but he finds hope in her sleeping face, guardedly optimistic at the way her brow smooths out, how the lines at the corners of her eyes fade away.

The walking wounded need time to heal, especially when the dragons that lie behind their eyes are theirs alone to slay.

Any good storyteller knows that.

**Author's Note:**

> Slowly taking care of the housekeeping and moving my finished works from Tumblr to ye olde AO3. Come talk to me! http://codenamecynic.tumblr.com/


End file.
